


and i can see us lost in the memory

by scheifsforlife



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2019-2020 NHL Season, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Red String of Fate, Romance, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:16:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25998886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheifsforlife/pseuds/scheifsforlife
Summary: They’ve both changed.  They’re both older, wiser.  They both look a little different.  But this place?  And these feelings?  Hasn’t changed one bit.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Mitch Marner/Connor McDavid
Comments: 4
Kudos: 53





	and i can see us lost in the memory

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So, this fic is loosely based around ideas found in [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10690023). It’s an amazing fic, and I really suggest reading if you’re into that kind of thing cause it’s super well written. This is my second moodstrings fic, you can check out the first one [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24509614/chapters/59166505).
> 
> Some things to keep in mind:  
> \- Red strings are for lovers/soulmates  
> \- Red strings are associated with soulbonds in which a person can feel certain things that their partner is feeling  
> \- Yellow strings are for friendships  
> \- Green strings are for old friends  
> \- Blue strings are for family  
> \- Purple strings are for a person’s first love  
> \- Black strings indicate toxic relationships/relationships you have cut out of your life  
> \- Strings cannot be cut in this universe, will just turn black if the relationship turns sour  
> \- The bond associated with red strings can snap though, and if it does, the two people involved will just go back to being friends.  
> \- Two-toned strings are a thing in this universe. They happen when Person A feels something towards Person B that isn’t reciprocated. For example, Person A could be Person B’s first love (purple string), but Person A could only see Person B as their best friend (yellow string)  
> \- Strings can change depending on how a person feels towards another person at a certain time  
> \- People that can see a specific type of mood strings (for example, red) are called Seers  
> \- People who can see all types of strings are called Oracles
> 
> Please let me know in the comments if there are any questions about the fic, I know these types of fics can be kind of confusing. Hope you enjoy this one though!
> 
> Title from [august](https://youtu.be/nn_0zPAfyo8) by Taylor Swift.

Mitch’s string to McDavid has been a dark, almost black, green for, he doesn’t even know how long. Considering they both try their hardest to avoid each other during the off-season and haven’t had a real conversation in years, he’s honestly surprised that it hasn’t turned completely black yet. They’re not friends. They’re not old friends.

At this point, they are barely even acquaintances anymore.

Mitch doesn’t know where it went wrong. He doesn’t know how the GTA group went from him, Dylan, Connor, Travis, Max, and at least a dozen other different guys to just him, Max, and occasionally Dermy. Some of them drifted away naturally, especially most of the bubble guys who hadn’t made the show yet, but Mitch had always thought him, Dylan, and Connor would be a constant in the group. The NHL changes a lot about people, Mitch guesses, because soon, he goes from calling them Stromer and Davo to barely calling them Strome and McDavid. It’s not like he wanted to, but it was like one summer, it was all over. No more invitations from Strome to drive down to Mississauga to shoot the shit. No more chirps from McDavid about not being able to pick up a girl, no matter how good his hockey prowess was (is). And Mitch can’t remember the last time one of their mothers bothered to look at him, nevertheless talk to him.

So, to say he’s a little pissed off when McDavid absolutely WALKS Mo in Toronto for his first goal at the Scotiabank EVER, is an understatement. He’s fucking LIVID, and if he wasn’t sure that Sportsnet would publish a meltdown on every social media page in existence, he would be having one.

“Fucking fucker who can’t be bothered to fucking talk to me for fucking five years fucking scores a fucking goal on our fucking goaltender. Fucker better watch his fucking back if he wants to mess with fucking Marns,” Mitch nearly screams on his way back to the bench, knowing that Sportsnet knows better than to publish a clip with THAT many swears in it.

That doesn’t stop Mats and JT from giving him crazed looks though, like they can’t believe he just said that.

“You good Mitchy?” JT asks, ever the caring captain, always looking out for his players.

“Just,” Mitch tries to articulate it as simply as he can. “Fucking McDavid you know.”

John nods, but still seems like he’s sniffing for the poop (Mitch isn’t ashamed to say that How I Met Your Mother is his favorite TV show of all time; and NO, not because he used to watch it with McDavid back in the hayday).

“So it’s not Davo anymore?” And shit, Mitch forgot that JT trained with him in the summer.

“Hasn’t been Davo to me in a long time,” Mitch answers.

JT doesn’t say anything more, but Mitch can tell something’s still bugging him about the whole situation. Whatever. John doesn’t have the right to judge. Mitch knows he hasn’t talked to his BFF Stammer in like, 6 months. So what if McDavid was his best friend before Strome even was? It doesn’t matter anymore. They’re both in the show now, and they don’t have time to worry about petty childhood friendships.

(But deep down, Mitch misses McDavid a lot. With him, McDavid was never “The Next One” or whatever TSN would call him. He was just Connor, Mitch’s best friend, who would lick popsicle juice off of his arm in the middle of the summer. Who would play NHL ‘14 with him in the dead of night. Who would show up and sneak him out of school in winter to go play shinny. He was just… Connor.)

The Leafs lose 6-4, embarrassingly, but it’s like Scotiabank doesn’t even care. They’re all too busy screaming for their new savior, McJesus, basking in his presence. It makes Mitch want to smash his stick against the boards. If only they knew what a fucking godawful person he is. A fucking godawful person who doesn’t have room in his life for some major junior player when he’s in the fucking show. Even when that player makes the fucking show, McJesus the Savior can’t be fucking bothered to send them even a congratulations text.

God. If only everyone knew.

“Good game Marns!” McDavid yells at him from across the arena, as the Leafs are heading to the locker room.

He’s still on the visiting bench, waiting for his postgame interview and Three Stars announcement. The main lights in the arena have gone out, but the blue stage lights have already been turned to shine on McDavid’s face as he waits for his interview. His eyes are startlingly clear, like the water in the Muskoka River in the height of summer behind his lake house. It makes Mitch heartbreakingly nostalgic for the days when they were young, when going to the lake house was a thing, when they used to be—

And no. Mitch can tolerate playing against him, can even tolerate him scoring an admittedly fucking great goal on them, but he absolutely cannot tolerate Connor McDavid making him fucking nostalgic for something Mitch likes to pretend, most days, never happened. Connor has NO RIGHT to be acting like they’re friends right now, like nothing ever happened, like those summer days at the lake house weren’t buried under a shitload of read receipts and returned Knights tickets. Marns is reserved for teammates and friends, and he and McDavid are far from that. It is absolutely NOT okay to be calling him that, not now or ever again.

He knew McDavid was fucking mean as hell, but he didn’t expect him to be fucking cruel.

“Fuck you!” Mitch shouts, and before he knows it he’s practically lunging towards McDavid, not caring if he gets a suspension or not.

McDavid flinches hard, obvious even 25 feet away, like he didn’t know that was going to be Mitch’s automatic reaction. Mitch is so tired of this victim act. At least Strome had the balls to admit that they weren’t friends anymore. Fucking McDavid apparently doesn’t have the time to do that.

“Fuck—”

“Mitchy! Let’s go!” Mats yells over the noise of the crowd.

There’s an arm around him that he didn’t even realize was there, and oh, it’s Mats. That makes sense, because he’s nowhere near McDavid, and both of McDavid’s eyes have healthy looking skin around them. It probably would’ve only looked like he tripped on any sports broadcasts, and thank god for that. He doesn’t need Steve Simmons reporting on how McDavid and Marner, former friends, were seen in an all out battle after a game. It doesn’t make Mitch want to sock him in the face any less though, but he lets Mats drag him down the tunnel into the room anyways.

After all, the sweetest type of revenge is avoidance. Mitch would know. Connor used it on him.

* * *

When Mitch is nineteen and captain of the Knights, he decides to send Connor McDavid tickets to see him and the team. After all, he had just broken his collarbone and was lying around at home, doing next to nothing. Mitch figured it could be fun, give Connor a taste of live hockey, give him a chance to see Mitch again. They hadn’t hung out since the draft, too busy with their own development camps and all that shit. It would be good to catch up, good to spend some time together.

The tickets get sent back to the London house he shares with Dvo and Chucky no more than two weeks later. The return label is written in Kelly’s neat scrawl, a clear indication that McDavid didn’t even bother to look at them before telling his mother to give them back. It doesn’t make Mitch upset at all. Not one bit.

That’s what he keeps telling himself, as tears well up in his eyes, and he tosses the tickets in the trash.

* * *

Mats follows him home after the game, which is really unusual to say the least. He doesn’t typically spend that much time with Mitch after game days, prefers to cool down with Freddie, who’s more equipped to deal with his seriousness than Mitch. Mitch isn’t ashamed to admit that he’s like a kid on a sugar high after a win or a loss, and he knows that isn’t for everyone, especially if their goal is to chill out, not get ramped up again. 

Maybe Mats can see though, that Mitch isn’t planning on bouncing off the wall tonight but more like planning to drive his fist through the wall. And of course Mats, being the good A that he is, read the trademarked John Tavares Captain’s Handbook (sequel to How to Be a Leader co-written by Jonathan Toews and Sidney Crosby), and knows Rule 58: As always look out for other As

“That’s probably all he’s doing,” Mitch muses, as he swings open his front door and lets himself and Mats into the sleek living room of his Etchiboke house. “Making sure I’m okay so I’m at my best next game.”

“You wanna tell me what’s wrong?” Mats asks as soon as Mitch gets his shoes off, not even giving Mitch a chance to say hello to Zeus and drop his bag down.

Mitch practically snorts. Of course, it’s just like Mats to get straight to the point. As sad as that is for someone who has 100% seen the awesome interventions on How I Met Your Mother, it’s just Mats’s style. It’s no wonder he’s scored so much this year, he doesn’t have the finesse to be a playmaker. He’s blunt and doesn’t take the long road, just gets the puck to the back of the net as fast as possible. It’s great for Mitch on the ice, as a good finisher always works well with a little skill guy like himself, but not so much now. Not when he wants to avoid hashing out his messy breakup with one of the greatest, if not the greatest, star the NHL has ever seen.

“What?” Mitch jokes. “No intervention banner? No ‘this is an intervention?’ You gotta step up your game Matthews.”

It doesn’t get a laugh out of Mats like he expected. Instead, he squares his face and locks his jaw, like he’s preparing for some kind of battle. It’s his “Alternate Captain Serious” face, the face he gets when he’s giving the boys a pep talk before OT or when he’s staring down a goalie in the shootout. And oh god, there’s no way Mitch is getting out of this now.

“You wanna keep joking or do you actually wanna tell me what’s up?” Mats says flatly, clearly exasperated by Mitch.

“What do you mean?” Mitch replies, hoping that playing innocent will work better than the joking. “I thought we were just going to hang out.”

Mats pinches the bridge of his nose, and strangely enough, it reminds Mitch of Kelly, her face scrunching up in frustration after Mitch and Connor put dents into the garage door...again. He doesn’t know why it pops into his head, because the memory itself isn’t all that memorable, but it does. Which is just great, because now, he’s reverting back to the mode where he connects everything in the entire world back to McDavid. He’s fucking sick of it, fucking sick of McDavid barging into his life and changing everything, even if he barely does anything to Mitch.

“Are we just going to ignore that you just tried to jump Connor McDavid?” Mats says. “I thought you guys were friends.”

The laugh that Mitch lets out at that is nothing less than self-deprecating.

“Tell that to him,” Mitch quips back. “We haven’t been friends in a long time.”

When he says it out loud, it’s almost… sad. Everyone he’s met in the NHL has said that their Juniors’ friends are some of their best friends in the entire world. In fact, he hasn’t heard of anyone who broke it off with their Juniors’ friends. It would make him feel genuinely inferior as a friend, if he hasn’t dug a grave for those feelings years ago. He concentrates on kicking their asses when he plays them now, even though it’s probably physically impossible to one-up THE Connor McDavid.

“And that doesn’t upset you?” Mats says, going from angry to honestly confused.

Mitch shakes his head, because why would it? He’s making 10.893 million dollars AAV.. He already has enough to deal with now that the media is constantly scrutinizing him for even breathing. He doesn’t have time to worry about silly things like ex-friendships. Mitch thought Mats would understand that. After all, they live practically the same life.

“Umm no? It’s just McDavid, it’s not like he was my friend for very long.”

God, Mitch hopes Mats believes it. He doesn’t need to be cornered by JT and Mo tomorrow at practice about “friendship issues” and “how he can’t let his personal life interfere with his game”. The more he denies, the more he doesn’t have to think about it, the more he can stuff those feelings down until the next time they see each other. Mitch has to pretend he doesn’t care, he cannot have people doubting him now, not this season.

“Huh, well I guess it was long enough for you to develop a red string,” Mats says casually, like he didn’t just fucking tear into Mitch’s defenses and rip them apart.

He’s honestly not surprised though. It’s just like Connor McFuckingDavid to rise up from the dead and bring all the memories rushing back.

* * *

When Mitch is sixteen, he gets his purple string during a sleepover party with McDavid and Strome at Strome’s house in Ontario. Matthew’s nowhere to be seen, drowning in his own teenage angst so much that he thought his own brother and his friends were “uncool”. Ryan’s somewhere in Long Island, far away from Mississauga, living the dream all of them wanted to.

It’s nothing dramatic when he got his string, all of them crammed onto Strome’s ridiculously large king bed when Strome sighs out an “oh”, and Mitch sees a glimmering purple in between a collection of blues and yellows.

Mitch isn’t one of the gifted ones who can see the other end of their string, but it’s pretty obvious who your string connects to when you’re squished next to them and the string ends halfway towards their chest.

Strome wraps the string around his pinkie and tugs, a grin appearing slowly on his face. And hell yeah, Mitch thinks this could be the start of something fucking awesome.

(It’s not. It never completely ruins their friendship, Strome did that on his own, but it puts more of a divide between all of them. McDavid’s tension whenever he and Strome did something even remotely couplely was enough for both of them to call it quits, not willing to give up their current dynamic for a real relationship. There’s not much else to it, except for the oddly weird face McDavid would pull whenever he saw them kissing. It looked a little bit like pain).

* * *

The red string revelation gets hidden into his cache of “Connor McDavid feelings” until late February, when… Connor goes down with an injury. It gets pulled back up (unwillingly because Mitch never willingly thinks about Connor McDavid) because Mitch swears he can feel phantom pains of something straining in his knee during OT of the Coyotes game. It fucking sucks, because even from so far away, he can feel… Connor’s despair and worry of “my career” and “the team” reverberating through the bond. It makes Mitch’s head ache, already overwhelmed with the fact that he’s apparently fucking red-string connected to Connor McFuckingDavid, and that no, it’s not going to go away anytime soon.

(And yes, that’s a fact, because according to Oracle Mark Scheifele, breaking a bond is not only extremely complicated, but prevents you from ever developing another red-string relationship again).

It’s not even like Connor is the worst guy to be tied to. After all, he could have been connected to a serial killer or something. But out of all the people he knows, Connor is definitely the worst. They haven’t talked to each other in years, and they play for different teams. Not exactly the best situation for a relationship that practically requires a close connection. Not to mention that Connor wants nothing to do with him and hasn’t since the Draft.

When Mitch gets home after the win, his head is still pounding, the connection straining for comfort for the person on the other side, begging for relief. It’s not gonna happen though, not with things the way they are now. Mitch is honestly surprised that Connor hasn’t cut it off by now, figured he would be that cruel. He’s avoided Mitch for years. It wouldn’t be surprising if he continued that trend, even though Mitch’s side of the string was red now.

A shrill ring shocks him out of Connor-hating reverie, breaking through the silence of his house. It’s a blocked number calling when he checks it, and Mitch is already regretting this conversation. He only has two blocked numbers on his phone, and considering how one of them is lying in a training room with a bruised knee right now, he can figure out who it is. Mitch considers not picking up, but he knows that he’s just going to keep calling and calling and calling until Mitch picks up and talks to him.

After all, he never calls Mitch, not unless it’s important.

“Hello?” Mitch says.

“Hey Marns,” Strome says, shortly.

Mitch rolls his eyes. Of course he’s being short. All of their conversations I've had in the past five years have been short. It has never really been the same since the purple string rolled up and sort of, kind of, ruined everything. Even if it didn’t split them up permanently.

“Strome. What do you want?”

Mitch can’t imagine it’s something to do with the purple string. They haven’t discussed that since the Knights’ Memorial Cup year, when Strome sent him an awkward congratulations voicemail, with a light jab at their connection. And considering it’s pretty much a known fact around the league that Alex Debrincat and Strome have been red-string connected since their Memorial Cup win, Mitch knows it can’t be about having a one-sided red-string connection. There really wasn’t a reason for Dylan to be calling, unless—

“It’s about Davo.”

And god, Mitch hates to admit it, but he winces audibly, letting out a hiss. It’s been a while since he heard Davo come out of Strome’s mouth, and admittedly, it’s weird. The way he says it now, with a slight Chicago lilt to his voice, just shows how far they both are from Mississauga, Newmarket, and Markham. Just how long it’s been since they’ve been anything more than just opponents to each other.

“What about,” Mitch internally cringes. “Davo?”

Mitch can practically hear Strome’s eye roll, a call back to their youth. Strome had always been one of the most sarcastic people he had ever met, always saying things in the most vague way, making it difficult to figure out when he was being serious or joking. He still conveys it over the phone well apparently because the receiver picks up a huge sigh and facepalm.

“I’m a fucking Seer Marns, what do you think it’s about?”

And oh. Okay. That makes sense. They played the Hawks maybe a few weeks after the Oilers completely shelled them in, and Strome would’ve had plenty of time to stare at Mitch’s red string. Maybe even touch it too, especially since their lines were matched up against each other. It wouldn’t have taken him more than a minute to figure out who it was reaching out to, even when he was thousands of kilometers away. After all, he’d seen Strome read Chucky’s red string once, and it connected to someone all the way out in Germany. It wasn’t surprising that Strome had recognized the connection to Connor, not when he knew both of them so so well.

“Why now?” Mitch asks, cause it’s the one thing that doesn’t make sense about all of this.

If Strome found out last month, why didn’t he say something? Why didn’t he say something then, maybe put it in a chirp? If it was important enough to warrant a call to Mitch, it should have been enough for Strome to actually tell him in person.

“Now, because Davo just gave me a call, hopped up on pain meds and told me he missed you.”

Mitch feels like the Joker, a barbaric smile painted on his face, as he barks his laughter into the phone.

“Oh god. Oh god. That’s priceless,” Mitch wheezes, rubbing tears out of his eyes. “Connor McFuckingDavid, who has consistently ignored me for the past five years, misses me? Strome, you gotta get a job at a comedy club, you could sell that joke, it’s that funny.”

He expects a “gotcha!” to come back from Strome, or one of his teammates, saying it’s some sort of prank. What he gets instead is a low growl from Strome, straight out of the Jonathan Toews Handbook: How to Be an Angry Canadian Robot Captain (with a foreword from Sidney Crosby). Which means, oh shit. He’s being completely serious.

“I’m not messing around here Marns. Davo’s fucking dying from the separation anxiety.”

The anger bursts out of Mitch in a flash, everything he had bottled up over the past five years shoving it’s way out of his mouth all at once.

“Don’t fucking call me Marns,” Mitch grits out, cause yeah, that’s reserved for friends.

And although they’ve been over how they’re not friends many, many times, some people (cough cough Strome) still don’t understand that.

“I’ll call you Marns if I want to, because in my opinion, you’re the one who ruined the friendship Marns, not me.”

And fucking hell, in NO WORLD is that acceptable.

“Fuck you!” Mitch yells, and it’s oddly similar to what he yelled at Connor last month. “You’re the one who ignored me, when all I did was try to reach out to you!”

“Really?” Strome says, unbelieving. “Cause from what I remember, I sent you tickets to the Otters’ Memorial Cup Final, and you didn’t even bother to fucking come!”

And oh shit, Mitch had forgotten about that. It had been just after the loss to Washington in 2017. He remembers seeing the tickets sitting on the kitchen island, remembers scoffing and pushing them towards his recycling bin, bitter about not being able to make it further in the playoffs. Shit, he didn’t even have the mind to send them back like Connor did. He made Stromer think that he was coming, the whole time. It must’ve broken him when he didn’t show, especially because Stromer was the last of them to leave juniors behind. If Mitch had felt betrayed by Connor for leaving him behind when he made the show, Stromer must have felt 100 times worse. Touted to be a huge talent, and then sent down so many times that the words “first round bust” started to become a thing. And yeah, while he’s seeming, amazingly happy in Chicago now, it took him a long time to get there. A long time between Mitch and Connor to having another person to lean on.

There are a million other instances of the same thing, of deleted texts and ignored phone calls from Mitch, of hellos in arenas that were never answered. No wonder they left him out to dry, he’s just as terrible as he thought they were.

“Stromer,” Mitch says, slipping back into the casual GTA-group slang like it’s nothing. “I’m so so—”

“Save it Marns,” Stromer replies, cutting him off. “I’ve made my peace with it. We’ll discuss it more when I’m back in the ‘Sauga this summer. Right now, you gotta fix things with Davo. The connection is…”

He doesn’t have to finish the sentence for Mitch to know what he means. Mitch understands. He gets it. It’s practically taught religiously in Relationship 20-1 in high school. Red strings are special; they don’t come along everyday.

Mitch finishes his phone call with Stromer quickly, promising yes, he’ll show up at Stromer’s this summer, and yes, they’ll talk then. It’s liberating, reconnecting this friendship. Probably because neither of them ever hated each other because they were bad people or anything, but because they just had a huge miscommunication error and reprogramming their emotionless Canadian robot command was hard.

Still, when he finally hangs up on Stromer, and goes to type in Connor’s number (he still knows it by heart), he hesitates. Because if he grows some balls and actually does it, it’ll be admitting it’s real. It’ll be admitting that they’re really red string connected and dragging the locked chest of _ConnorConnorConnor_ out of the depth of his heart to crack it open.

(It’ll be revealing the real reason he’s “hated” Connor for so long, for so many years. It was never for leaving him, Dylan did practically the same thing, and it didn’t hurt nearly half as much. It was because, even after everything, their broken friendship, his failed relationship with Dylan, Mitch is 100% irrevocably, undoubtedly, whole-heartedly in love with Connor McDavid. Always has been. Always will be. He doesn’t remember a Mitch Marner who wasn’t in love with Connor McDavid. He doesn’t know if he’s going to become a Mitch Marner who doesn’t love Connor McDavid.)

And that’s what compels him to put the phone down and go to bed. Because the longer he refuses to face it, the longer he denies it, the longer he has before Connor McDavid rips his heart out of his chest and stomps on it.

* * *

When Mitch is fourteen, he unknowingly falls in love for the first time. There’s this boy on the Toronto Marlboros, who’s fucking fast as hell and is good enough to play up an age group. His dad tells him that his name is Connor McDavid, that he’s being scouted by the OHL, that he might be granted exceptional status next year. Mitch doesn’t know him yet, but he sounds fucking awesome, especially since he already has a special on TSN.

They meet for the first time after a game. The Marlboros beat the Kings 4-1, and even though Mitch is angry that his team lost, he can’t get the McDavid kid out of his head. He was clearly better than everyone else on the ice, weaving and dekeing around the Kings’ best defensemen like it was nothing. Mitch was so in awe that he definitely fucked up some plays just because the McDavid kid was headed his way.

(His dad wasn’t happy about that, but he’s not really happy with much Mitch is doing these days.)

Mitch is trying to feed a fiver to the vending machine (fucking won’t go in because it’s crinkled bullshit), when someone pushes his hand away and puts in a fiver of their own.

“Hey what are you—”

The words die on his tongue as he turns around to see Connor McDavid there, carrying a heavy gear bag and rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. He’s even more beautiful in real life, towering over Mitch with his clear blue eyes and tousled blonde hair. There’s some ache popping up on his face, a sign of teenage puberty, but he rocks it so much more than Mitch, who looks like a pizza face.

“What do you want?” Connor asks.

Mitch doesn’t know how to respond to that, too focused on Connor’s fucking voice. It’s smooth as silk, even though it hasn’t fully dropped and is still is that sort of awkward stage between squeaky and low. It’s literal music to Mitch’s ears, and he’s honestly surprised that a purple string doesn’t pop up right then and there.

(Later, he’ll realize that his initial feelings towards Connor were more like lust and not love, which is obviously not under the purple string mandate. He doesn’t REALLY fall in love with Connor until the purple string with Dylan came, considering he treated him just like a friend up until then.)

“93? What do you want from the machine?”

And oh, Connor’s talking to him.

“Oh, um, just a granola bar,” Mitch replies, hoping his voice doesn’t sound as high-pitched to Connor as it does to him. “And it’s not 93. It’s um, Mitch. Marner.”

Connor’s face splits into a smile, and holy shit, that smile could summon angels. Mitch prays he isn’t blushing as hard as he thinks he is when Connor hands him his granola bar and change. Because that would be embarrassing. Extremely.

“Cool. I’m Connor.”

Connor’s voice happy is kilometers better than his voice when it’s monotone, which is a fucking miracle in Mitch’s expert opinion.

“What? No ‘I’m the Next One?’” Mitch jokes, hoping it’ll come off as a chirp and not the nervous question it is. “It’s what TSN calls you.”

“No,” Connor says immediately. “It’s just Connor.”

* * *

The Preds game never happens, and the season gets cancelled on March 12th. Mitch does what he can. He calls his parents, makes sure they’re okay. He gives a motivational speech to the team, straight out of the John Tavares playbook, over FaceTime. He even texts Stromer, reschedules their talk to earlier, now that he’s going home to the ‘Sauga.

He doesn’t call, text, FaceTime, or even mail Connor, although he can feel Connor’s anxiety and concern reverberating through the bond and tugging at his heartstrings. He’s a damn coward and doesn’t call, not even when Connor boards a plane and flys back to Toronto.

Fuck.

The days drag on now, have ever since he couldn’t muster up the courage to call Connor to fix everything, leaving Mitch to live in the time in between interviews and emails. Somedays, he doesn’t even feel like Mitch anymore, like there’s something missing from the foundation of who he is as a person all the time.

(He knows what’s missing. It’s been missing since the day he thought he could pretend he didn’t love Connor McDavid.)

He’s just finished the interview with Mats and Patty, when his phone rings. At first, he assumes it’s Stromer, telling him that he’s back and that he’s ready to talk. Mitch is looking forward to it, to the day when him and Stromer finally become friends again, and he takes his first steps to being whole. It’s exciting, knowing that at the end of this mess, at least he’ll still have Stromer.

But the person calling isn’t Stromer.

It’s Kelly.

“Hi Mitch!”

And god, her happy, over-enthusiastic voice is enough to have Mitch slumping over the kitchen island, tears welling up in his eyes. It’s been so long since he talked to Kelly that her voice tugs him straight back to Christmases with perfectly baked sugar cookies and basement brawls, the nostalgia building. She was practically a surrogate mother to even, even more than Trish was. She was always there for him, even when his own mom and dad weren’t. She was there when he got drafted, congratulating him even when Connor was nowhere in sight. She brought him to the hospital when he sprained his wrist rollerblading with Stromer. She was even nice enough to send back the tickets Connor clearly never bothered to look at. God he misses her.

(God, he misses Connor.)

“Hey Kelly,” Mitch says, sincerely hoping he doesn’t sound as choked up as he feels.

“Did you leave a shirt at the lake house? We’re cleaning it out so Connor can come use it for a little bit, and I found a Leafs’ shirt with your name on the back. It looks a few years old though, I don’t know if you’d still want it.”

Back when he had balls, he mailed Connor that shirt, as almost like a gag gift. It had been right after the draft, when they had just started to print stuff with his name on the back. He thought it would be hilarious to send one to Connor, to chirp him about how he got drafted by the First Overall Factory Oilers. There was a card that got sent with it, a “Hope you’ll wear it when you come visit :)))))” written on it. Mitch even wrote a couple of Xs and Os on it like a teenage girl, feeling brave. He assumed that Connor threw the package in the trash, not even bothering to look at it. He didn’t think that Connor actually took it out.

“Oh yeah, I-I still want it,” Mitch stutters out.

It’ll be like a souvenir. A souvenir from a lake house he’ll never return to again.

“Okay honey,” Mitch has to muffle a sob at that. “Do you want to come pick it up now? It’s just me up here, and I’ll be out in about half an hour.”

“Yeah, Kelly. Now is good.”

* * *

When Mitch is 21, he decided to officially stop loving Connor McDavid. He’s in the show now, and it’s not his rookie year anymore. He can’t be unfocused, his team needs him to be fucking amazing. He doesn’t have the time to be worrying if this next text is going to finally be the one he answers. Or if this next call is finally going to be the one he picks up. He’s tired of it, tired of being the mouse the cat can’t be bothered to chase. So, he decides one day that he’s done.

  
  


Mitch is done loving Connor McDavid.

* * *

The Muskoka River is still frozen over, and even though Mitch has never been here during the winter, the lake house still looks the same as it did years and years ago.

Nothing’s changed, not really. The spare key was still in the same place, underneath the fourth closest flowerpot to the house. The couches, the books, the decor, they all look like a perfect snapshot of what Mitch remembers them to be. Even the rooms are the same, the sheets still the pristine white they were five years ago. Kelly and Brian did a good job of maintaining it.

Kelly had left his shirt folded on the bed in Connor’s room, over his navy blue bedspread, the only different one in the entire house. Mitch picks it up quickly, drawing it to his nose for a sniff. It smells like basic laundry detergent and dust. He’s surprised that he’s disappointed for a moment (what was he expecting?) when he realizes exactly what he was hoping for. He wanted to know if Connor had ever wore it, if Connor has ever slathered his body odour and cheap cologne on it. Apparently, he hadn’t.

(Mitch wonders what Connor uses now. With that 12 million dollar AAV, he could be buying all different types of expensive cologne.)

He leaves the lake house, placing the key under the flowerpot once again, not bothering to stop and take it in for a final time. That’s a nostalgia trip he doesn’t need to take, not if he doesn’t want to be using the shirt as a tissue.

Mitch does, however, take a second to sit on the pier and just reflect. So many years here. So many memories made. And now, they’re all going to be gone. Because he was scared and wasted so much time. If only things were different. If only he hadn’t been stupid and ruined it all.

He’s so lost in his own thoughts, that he doesn’t register the snow crunching under boots behind him, doesn’t register the insistent pull from the red-string. It’s not until he speaks that Mitch realizes, he’s not alone.

“Marns?” Connor says softly, too soft for a deserted lake house with just them around. “What are you doing here?”

Connor sounds just like he did in that rink in Vaughan, voice perfectly balanced between high and low, and it drags Mitch back in so deep, he has to physically curl his hands into fists to stop himself from jumping Connor. That’s not what Connor wants, he has to remind himself. That’s not what Connor wants.

“Hi, Davo,” Mitch’s voice sounds just about as cracked in half as he feels. “I-uh. I didn’t know you’d be here.”

The creaking of the pier tells Mitch that Connor’s getting closer. Mitch squeezes his eyes shut, tight, refusing to turn around and just look at him. He knows what he’ll do if he does. Mitch won’t be able to control himself any longer.

“I own the place,” Connor says, with the slight lilt of sarcasm that Mitch missed so much. “I think I’m entitled to be here.”

God, Mitch doesn’t know how he’ll get from the end of the pier to his car with his eyes closed. How is he going to escape?

Aw fuck it, he’ll figure it out. Anything would be better than this.

“I’ll go then,” Mitch says, standing up.

He barely makes it one step before Connor’s hand is wrapped around his wrist, burning like a brand. He has to hold back a whimper because fuck, was the separation anxiety strong. The warmth floods his senses all at once, and it feels so fucking good, god. He doesn’t want to move away from this, from his red string person, his supposed fucking forever. But he has to, he has to. It’s not what Connor—

“Marns, open your eyes.”

And Mitch is so goddamn tired of fighting it that he does.

The bond snaps into place as soon as Connor’s clear blue Muskoka eyes make contact with his.

The first thing Mitch notices when the _holy shit, the bond_ feeling wears off is that Connor’s gotten shorter since the last time they saw each other, up close and personal.

No, no that’s not right. He got taller. Connor’s still the same height, but the top of Mitch’s head hits him right underneath the nose, cause hell yeah, he’s a solid 6 foot now.

And it doesn’t shock Mitch as much as it just hits him square in the chest how much they’ve both changed from the last time they stood together at this lake house and on this pier. Mitch is taller now. Connor’s hair is longer than it was before, and it’s not so much blond as it is copper. Mitch’s eyes are more green than blue now. Connor has facial hair, no longer the baby face he was at the Draft, when they really looked at each other last.

They’ve both changed. They’re both older, wiser. They both look a little different. But this place? And these feelings? Hasn’t changed one bit.

“Davo,” Mitch says carefully, not sure where to tread first. “Why… why did we stop being friends?”

And god, Connor deflates when he says it, like all the oxygen was just sucked right out of him.

“I-I was scared Marns,” Connor says it like a secret. “It changed right after the draft to red, and I had no idea if you felt the same. The other side of your string was straight up yellow, and considering how it was a one-sided purple string forfuckingever, I couldn’t—”

It was what?

“Purple?” Mitch whisper-screams. “You—that’s practically—Davo, that’s not healthy.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Connor replies. “I didn’t know what to do, not when I wasn’t sure if I would lose you forever or not. I couldn’t risk it. And when you got your purple string, and it connected to Stromer, I—”

And suddenly, it all makes sense. How Connor became increasingly testy when Mitch and Stromer started dating. How he would hang around them all the time when all they wanted to do was go make out. How he practically broke them up.

He wasn’t trying to protect their friendship, he knew that would be okay. He was jealous. So overwhelmingly jealous.

“We’re coming back to that,” Mitch says. “Because in no way is that okay. But I get that you were young and dumb and made a decision you probably shouldn’t have. But us first okay? Red string. Continue.”

And Connor does. He holds Mitch and tells him everything, how he was dead scared of losing him, of breaking the connection before it could snap into place. How it was the main reason Connor avoided Mitch for years on end, because he wouldn’t be able to handle the rejection, the feeling of his string breaking. How he watched Mitch’s side go from yellow, to green, to almost black, to red as a fire truck over the years.

“I was so afraid,” Connor confesses. “That one day, I’d be in Toronto or you’d be in Edmonton, and it’d be black, just straight up. Marns, I think I cried when I saw it turn red right in front of my eyes, because I knew you were meant to be mine.”

The chest in Mitch’s heart breaks open at that, spilling out everything. How he remembers the rink in Vaughan and falling in love. How much he hated Connor for leaving him behind, for leaving him without a word. How that was all just a front for how much he loved Connor and how much him leaving broke Mitch.

They leave everything on that pier in front of the lake house of their childhood, the memories of the old mixing with the memories of the new as they share and share and share. And even though Mitch doesn’t forgive Connor for all of the stupid decisions he made that prevented them from being together, he’s so glad that they’re here now. That they’re here together now. Because he wouldn’t trade the decisions that Connor made that moulded him into the person he is now for anything. He needed them to be the person on the other side of Connor’s red string, and so did Connor.

“No more secrets?” Connor says, when they’re finally done spilling their souls.

Mitch grins.

“Challenge accepted,” Mitch says, as he pulls Connor in for a kiss that is oh so sweet.

* * *

When Mitch is 23, he decides to give up the act and falls in love with Connor McDavid all over again.

But this time?

It’s reciprocated.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I’m at [scheifsforlife](https://scheifsforlife.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.


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